I chide not at the seasons, for if Spring <br />With backward look refuses to be fair, <br />My Love still more than April makes me sing, <br />And shows May blossom in the bleak March air. <br />Should Summer fail its tryst, or June delay <br />To wreathe my porch with roses red and pale, <br />Her breath is sweeter than the new-mown hay, <br />Her touch more clinging than the woodbine's trail. <br />Let Autumn like a spendthrift waste the year, <br />And reap no harvest save the fallen leaves, <br />My Love still ripeneth, though she grows not sere, <br />And smiles enthroned upon our piled-up sheaves. <br />And last, when miser Winter docks the days, <br />She warms my hearth and keeps my hopes ablaze.<br /><br />Alfred Austin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-chide-not-at-the-seasons/
